Page 3 of A Taste of Miss Honey

Chapter 1

Into the Woods.

Eleven years later…

The Vicarage, Little Valentine, 21st January 1816

Izzy tugged her cloak tighter around her, though the chill night air sliced through it, the nightgown she wore underneath doing little to keep out the cold. The vicarage was a large, solid shape in the darkness behind her, offering safety, but she was not so hen hearted. Another shout echoed through the black night, the sound of men crashing about in Winsham Woods making her heart thud behind her ribs.

Boreas was out there somewhere, fighting for survival as Captain Underwood and his Revenue men hunted him down like a dog. The charismatic and handsome smuggler who had occupied far too many of her thoughts, and starred in dreams that made her blush to recall them, might already be dead.

Izzy shook off the thought. He wasn’t dead. If he was, the shouting and shooting would be over.

For a moment she dithered by the back gate that led out through the woods and joined the road to Hatherley Hall. The pistol Black Jack had given her all those years ago was a cold weight in her hand, brought for security, though she hoped there would be no reason to use it. She certainly could not shoot at Captain Underwood, nor any of the other revenue men, all of whom might have family in these parts. If she was caught with it, there would be far too many difficult questions to answer but it was a chance she had to take. She must get Boreas to safety until Underwood and his men tired of searching for him.

Pushing open the gate, she hurried into the woods, moving with a good deal less noise than the men. Another shot exploded through the night. Izzy smothered a scream, reaching out to brace her hand against the rough bark of a tree. That had come from close by the Hall. Briefly, she wondered if she was out of her mind for taking such a risk. Her father sympathised with the smugglers and would abhor the idea of any man being shot, even a criminal, but he would hardly approve of her actions. Yet she could not leave Boreas to his fate, not if she could help him.

She ran, grateful for all those childhood adventures that had seen her racing pell-mell through these woods, both in daytime and, in some of her and Angel’s more daring exploits, at night.

Her thoughts seemed to move as fast as her feet, the knowledge that her father would shake her until her teeth rattled if he had the slightest idea what she was up to foremost among them. But he had slipped from the house too, no doubt intent on doing what he could to keep Boreas safe, or to give comfort to a dying man. No. Not that. Another shot rang out, close at hand and she ran on, desperate now, heedless of twigs and brambles that caught at her arms, at her cloak and the hem of her nightgown.

The frigid night air prickled against her sweat-dampened skin. She was cold and yet too hot, her nightgown clinging unpleasantly to her body as she moved. She was level with the Hall now, and the sounds of men on the far side of the road became louder.

A noise ahead of her made her stop in her tracks, listening over the ceaseless thunder of blood rushing in her ears. Her chest heaved as she fought for breath, but there it was again. She moved, stealthy now, her every instinct on alert.

A muttered oath reached her, and she froze again.

“Boreas?”

The whispered name seemed to hang suspended for a long moment, like candle smoke drifting on the air. Suddenly the night was utterly still, and Izzy felt the darkness pressing down upon her. She was aware of movement in the bare second before a large hand covered her mouth, muffling the scream she might have released if he’d been a fraction slower. The cold press of metal at the base of her neck made gooseflesh prickle over her skin.

Izzy’s heart ran rabbit fast, her entire frame rigid with terror. Was this Boreas, or one of Underwood’s men? Were there others out here for nefarious reasons of their own?

“Make the slightest sound, and you’ll never make another.” The low voice was silky and menacing, and Izzy swallowed but gave a jerky nod of her head. “Who the hell are you?”

He took his hand away, and Izzy let out a ragged breath, sure she recognised his voice now. “M-Miss Honeywell. I’ve come to help you.”

She glanced over her shoulder as he muttered something obscene. Turning fully, she faced him, increasingly aware that he was furious with her.

“You damned little fool. Have you taken leave of your senses? Do you want to die?”

“I might ask you the same thing,” she retorted, nettled. “I told you it was a stupid idea and that you’d get yourself killed. Now, if you’d like a safe place to hide, shut up and follow me.”

Izzy glared at him, or tried to, it was difficult to see anything but the pale glint of his hair in the darkness, but his only retort was a muffled snort. Still, he gestured for her to move, and she led him back the way she’d come. He followed close behind her, stealthy and cat footed as she might expect of a man who lived as he did. Yet every snap of a twig made her heart leap in her chest, every rustle as the breeze stirred the leaves made her nerves leap as she expected a Revenue man to leap out at them, or a shot to come singing through the darkness. They were halfway back to the vicarage when she realised he was slowing, his footsteps dragging.

She turned back, a spike of alarm darting through her as she saw him pause, leaning heavily against a tree.

“Oh, you’re hurt!” she exclaimed, going to him. “What is it?”

His eyes glinted in the darkness, and she smelled the faint coppery scent of fresh blood. Terror thrilled down her spine.

“Don’t fret, Miss Honey. I’m not dead yet. Keep going.”

There was amusement in his voice, but she could hear the rasp of pain there too. Yet Izzy nodded, for she could offer no help here, no matter the injury he’d suffered, but she moved slower, darting glances over her shoulder to ensure he was still standing. She could see little in the murky light, but she noted how he clutched at his right side. Shot, she thought numbly, mentally preparing everything she would need to treat him. First, she had to get him inside, though, up to the attic with no one noticing.

He made it through the garden gate and took several steps, and then paused, swaying.

Izzy ran to him, shoring up his good side, her arm sliding around his waist, discovering that he seemed much larger up close than she had imagined. Hard muscle shifted beneath her hand as she lent him her support, and he grunted, slinging his arm over her shoulder. Izzy noted the pistol, still gripped tightly in his hand. The smell of gunpowder clung to him, a male, musky note of sweat underlying all else. If not for the cloying scent of blood, she might have thought it an intoxicating aroma.